As I walked I was overwhelmed with wonder in the curve of a feather. At the end of the pond was my friend the Great Blue Heron who I see there often. He sat in the morning sun and frigid air with his feathers fluffed up for warmth. I stopped to greet him. The light of the sun caught the spray of feathers that extended from his chest, the feathers lit such that I could see each one individually. I looked at his colors and beauty and design so perfect for him and my heart swelled with joy and wonder (literally I felt like the Grinch with my heart growing three sizes). How beautiful!
I thought of the feathers on other birds I have seen and all their amazing array of colors and sizes, all serving a purpose for that bird. I thought of the different kinds of trees and how each one has a different leaf and different bark, a different way to reach for the sky. I thought about the flowers! There exists in the world such an enormous variety of flowers! Each with different petals and colors, leaves and stems. And what of all the creatures, I thought, those that crawl or run or swim or slither, with scales or skin or fur? Each of these plants, birds and animals with all they need to serve life, to live and thrive and create more life in one form or another. What a wonder that there is such immense splendor and diversity!
I was overwhelmed with joy as a stood there basking in the reflected beauty of the heron. I was filled with gratitude to have that small moment of wonder and to see the threads of life all around me as they stretched out across the earth and into the vastness of the Universe and all its mystery and majesty. What an amazing gift, I thought, to be able to be here in this moment and witness the beauty of creation in the curve of a single feather.
In Gratitude to the Great Blue
Monday, January 24, 2011
Blame Ends with Me
For Christina Taylor Green
We teach them to share. We teach them to be kind, their right from their left, play nicely, use good manners, it’s not polite to point, take turns. We teach them to take responsibility. We teach them the golden rule; Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
Unless the others are not like you. Unless they don’t vote like you do. Unless their skin is a different color than yours. Unless they pray differently than you. Unless they live across some imaginary border from you. Unless they don’t agree with you. Unless…
We redefine right and left, until it becomes right and wrong. Pointing, pointing, pointing at who is to blame. Did you ever notice the word blame ends with me?
I am to blame. For every choice I made that did not honor what I teach my children. For every choice not made from love. For every time I didn’t share or play nicely with others. For every time I judged based on color or creed or doctrine. For every time I was impolite. For every time I didn’t wait my turn. For every time I dodged my responsibility for my choices. For every time I was unkind. For every time I forgot that left and right were just directions, not divisions.
For each and every time, my child, I apologize. I should have known better. I should have behaved better. From the deepest place in my heart, from the deepest part of my connection to all humanity, I am sorry that I didn’t behave more like you. I’m sorry I didn’t choose from the heart of the child, so that you could live today, now, in a world of peace. I will choose more wisely from this day forth. I will make choices that I know will one day lead to a world you will be proud to call home. You have my word - if you will still take the word of an adult.
January 9, 2011
We teach them to share. We teach them to be kind, their right from their left, play nicely, use good manners, it’s not polite to point, take turns. We teach them to take responsibility. We teach them the golden rule; Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
Unless the others are not like you. Unless they don’t vote like you do. Unless their skin is a different color than yours. Unless they pray differently than you. Unless they live across some imaginary border from you. Unless they don’t agree with you. Unless…
We redefine right and left, until it becomes right and wrong. Pointing, pointing, pointing at who is to blame. Did you ever notice the word blame ends with me?
I am to blame. For every choice I made that did not honor what I teach my children. For every choice not made from love. For every time I didn’t share or play nicely with others. For every time I judged based on color or creed or doctrine. For every time I was impolite. For every time I didn’t wait my turn. For every time I dodged my responsibility for my choices. For every time I was unkind. For every time I forgot that left and right were just directions, not divisions.
For each and every time, my child, I apologize. I should have known better. I should have behaved better. From the deepest place in my heart, from the deepest part of my connection to all humanity, I am sorry that I didn’t behave more like you. I’m sorry I didn’t choose from the heart of the child, so that you could live today, now, in a world of peace. I will choose more wisely from this day forth. I will make choices that I know will one day lead to a world you will be proud to call home. You have my word - if you will still take the word of an adult.
January 9, 2011
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Passing of a Redbud Tree
I wrote a post last year (April 2009) about the redbud tree in my front yard. Here is part of that post:
There is nothing that tree can do to stop me from loving it. Looking at it simply makes me feel the love in my heart, the love that I am. What an amazing gift that tree gives to me. It provides me with a reminder of the love that I am, an opportunity to feel the love that I am…. Maybe that’s what love is, simply something or someone that reminds you of or reawakens in you the love that you are.
That redbud tree is no longer in my front yard. The disease I wrote about in the post eventually killed that beautiful tree. And so my friend the redbud continued to teach me about love, even in death.
I let her sit in my front yard without a single leaf on her for a whole spring and summer when others could clearly see that she was dead, because I was hoping she would still somehow come back to life. She had been so full of life, so it must be possible I reasoned. Yet, the truth was that her time as a redbud tree had ended and my holding on to her could not bring that beautiful life back to her branches. I had to let her go with grace. My holding her here because of my sadness and reluctance to let her go did not honor the beautiful life that she was.
It was time for her to transform from one form of life to another. I realized at some point that I could let her do it while I resisted or I could let her transform with love. That’s when I remembered the lesson of unconditional love that she taught me one morning as I sat on my porch looking at her. The question became, could I love her unconditionally even in death?
I decided I could. It did not mean that I didn’t still have some reluctance because I did, and it didn’t mean I didn’t have any sadness because I did. However, I didn’t want to tether her here out of fear of loss, but wanted instead to release her with love. It was a slow lesson to learn for me because I had loved that tree since she was a sapling. I did learn, however slowly, that I was not loving her by holding on to her when she was clearly already gone. The loving thing was to acknowledge the end of the life of my beloved redbud and find a way to rejoice in the new life that would somehow come from her death.
In the woods she might have had the opportunity to fall and decay and become a part of the forest floor that would eventually help feed another tree. I knew she wouldn’t have that opportunity in my front yard. I couldn’t really bring myself to cut her down though. Instead someone that loves me had an opportunity to practice unconditional love as well and be part of this process with me. I know she was taken down with a sense of honor and gratitude. So many opportunities she provided to practice her teachings.
She lay in pieces in my yard for a week. My daughters and I mourned her passing. I still feel sadness that I will not see her colors again or feel the coolness of the shade she provides or watch the buds form on her branches in the spring. I miss what she was. Yet, I had to find a way to celebrate her life and what she could become beyond being a redbud tree.
Rather than have her decay at the dump with other yard debris, she had an opportunity to transform in a more dramatic fashion. She became fuel for a bonfire that was part of a night of music and celebration and community. I think she would have liked that. I sat with her as the fire was lit and watched as she transformed before my eyes into flame, smoke, ember and finally ashes. It was sad and joyful at once. I knew through what she had taught me about unconditional love, that I could love her equally no matter what form she took and I knew she could remind me of the love that I am no matter what form she took.
She just never taught me about the sadness I would feel. And yet she did. Through her transformation she showed me that the love I felt for her could radiate through the feelings of loss and remind me of the joy she found in her new form. If I loved her unconditionally how could I not celebrate her transformation with her? I’m quite sure she enjoyed providing light for smiling faces, heat for roasting marshmallows, and warmth for an evening holding the promise of autumn in the air.
And now? Now I carry the memory of her beauty, her lessons and her love with me everyday, as well as the joy of knowing that indeed her life, in whatever form, continues to bear fruit.
There is nothing that tree can do to stop me from loving it. Looking at it simply makes me feel the love in my heart, the love that I am. What an amazing gift that tree gives to me. It provides me with a reminder of the love that I am, an opportunity to feel the love that I am…. Maybe that’s what love is, simply something or someone that reminds you of or reawakens in you the love that you are.
That redbud tree is no longer in my front yard. The disease I wrote about in the post eventually killed that beautiful tree. And so my friend the redbud continued to teach me about love, even in death.
I let her sit in my front yard without a single leaf on her for a whole spring and summer when others could clearly see that she was dead, because I was hoping she would still somehow come back to life. She had been so full of life, so it must be possible I reasoned. Yet, the truth was that her time as a redbud tree had ended and my holding on to her could not bring that beautiful life back to her branches. I had to let her go with grace. My holding her here because of my sadness and reluctance to let her go did not honor the beautiful life that she was.
It was time for her to transform from one form of life to another. I realized at some point that I could let her do it while I resisted or I could let her transform with love. That’s when I remembered the lesson of unconditional love that she taught me one morning as I sat on my porch looking at her. The question became, could I love her unconditionally even in death?
I decided I could. It did not mean that I didn’t still have some reluctance because I did, and it didn’t mean I didn’t have any sadness because I did. However, I didn’t want to tether her here out of fear of loss, but wanted instead to release her with love. It was a slow lesson to learn for me because I had loved that tree since she was a sapling. I did learn, however slowly, that I was not loving her by holding on to her when she was clearly already gone. The loving thing was to acknowledge the end of the life of my beloved redbud and find a way to rejoice in the new life that would somehow come from her death.
In the woods she might have had the opportunity to fall and decay and become a part of the forest floor that would eventually help feed another tree. I knew she wouldn’t have that opportunity in my front yard. I couldn’t really bring myself to cut her down though. Instead someone that loves me had an opportunity to practice unconditional love as well and be part of this process with me. I know she was taken down with a sense of honor and gratitude. So many opportunities she provided to practice her teachings.
She lay in pieces in my yard for a week. My daughters and I mourned her passing. I still feel sadness that I will not see her colors again or feel the coolness of the shade she provides or watch the buds form on her branches in the spring. I miss what she was. Yet, I had to find a way to celebrate her life and what she could become beyond being a redbud tree.
Rather than have her decay at the dump with other yard debris, she had an opportunity to transform in a more dramatic fashion. She became fuel for a bonfire that was part of a night of music and celebration and community. I think she would have liked that. I sat with her as the fire was lit and watched as she transformed before my eyes into flame, smoke, ember and finally ashes. It was sad and joyful at once. I knew through what she had taught me about unconditional love, that I could love her equally no matter what form she took and I knew she could remind me of the love that I am no matter what form she took.
She just never taught me about the sadness I would feel. And yet she did. Through her transformation she showed me that the love I felt for her could radiate through the feelings of loss and remind me of the joy she found in her new form. If I loved her unconditionally how could I not celebrate her transformation with her? I’m quite sure she enjoyed providing light for smiling faces, heat for roasting marshmallows, and warmth for an evening holding the promise of autumn in the air.
And now? Now I carry the memory of her beauty, her lessons and her love with me everyday, as well as the joy of knowing that indeed her life, in whatever form, continues to bear fruit.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Food of Love
In my writing process I most often feel as if words are simply moving through me. There are some ways in particular that I know for certain are purely words moving through me and this came from one of those writings the other day. I found it to be very interesting and so I thought I would share it. Enjoy in Love!
With an infant a human need is simply a human need. They cry for food or nourishment. They are acknowledged to need love for true, pure growth and stimulation without shame or fear. Love is part of their nourishment and no one belittles them for it. No one holds that need for love against them. As an infant it is part of the basic needs of the human. Then things shift and the need for the nourishment of love becomes conditional and limited as if you outgrown the need for love. That is not true. Love is the source of all nourishment. Love is the core of that bright light. Sit within it and be fed by Love. Feed yourself without shame or self recrimination. Allow that love to fill you and feed you. Its supply is limitless and endless. Fear not in your human form, fear not and love more. Fear none, love all.
With an infant a human need is simply a human need. They cry for food or nourishment. They are acknowledged to need love for true, pure growth and stimulation without shame or fear. Love is part of their nourishment and no one belittles them for it. No one holds that need for love against them. As an infant it is part of the basic needs of the human. Then things shift and the need for the nourishment of love becomes conditional and limited as if you outgrown the need for love. That is not true. Love is the source of all nourishment. Love is the core of that bright light. Sit within it and be fed by Love. Feed yourself without shame or self recrimination. Allow that love to fill you and feed you. Its supply is limitless and endless. Fear not in your human form, fear not and love more. Fear none, love all.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuning
I live in gratitude for my morning walks....
There is a natural rhythm to the Earth. With each step I feel it under my feet. With each breath I smell it in the air. With each moment I hear it all around me. With each blink of my eye I see it in color and light. Every morning I am an instrument waiting to be tuned. If I allow it, the birds will sing with me until I hit a harmonizing note. If I allow it, the summer green of the leaves, the deep burgundy of the lilies or the pure cobalt of the blue jay will perfect my vision with their rainbow. If I allow it, the gentle breeze and whispering of the leaves will tighten or loosen a string as needed. If I allow it, my heart will align with the steady heartbeat that arises from the core of the Earth. If I allow it, with each step and each breath I will hear my own contribution to the symphony. I bow my head and continue on in tune.
There is a natural rhythm to the Earth. With each step I feel it under my feet. With each breath I smell it in the air. With each moment I hear it all around me. With each blink of my eye I see it in color and light. Every morning I am an instrument waiting to be tuned. If I allow it, the birds will sing with me until I hit a harmonizing note. If I allow it, the summer green of the leaves, the deep burgundy of the lilies or the pure cobalt of the blue jay will perfect my vision with their rainbow. If I allow it, the gentle breeze and whispering of the leaves will tighten or loosen a string as needed. If I allow it, my heart will align with the steady heartbeat that arises from the core of the Earth. If I allow it, with each step and each breath I will hear my own contribution to the symphony. I bow my head and continue on in tune.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Detours
As anyone who lives in or around Fredericksburg, VA knows, there is a lot of road work happening right now. It seems everywhere you go there is a sign saying, left lane closed, or detour, or fines are higher in construction zones! It’s not just on one road either, but seems to be on every route you try. Like everyone else I have found myself becoming frustrated with the delays. Until a recent morning that is. One morning I was walking and saw a new detour sign on Washington Ave. and watched the cars being guided to the new route. That is when the words came to me loud and clear, have patience with the path as you drive it, have patience with the path as you walk it.
Have patience with the path. I smiled to myself as I walked. It was much easier to find that patience when I was taking my morning walk as opposed to when I’m running late getting my daughters to field hockey or gymnastics. I recognized it as an important moment though.
My own journey took an unexpected turn recently, one that I saw no warning signs for. I wish I had seen the detour coming like I do around town, but it came nonetheless. Paths will do that. While I know it is something I will move through, I also needed the reminder to have patience as I walk it. I can’t always see the twists and turns the path will take in advance and truly I know that is not really the goal. The goal is to walk it with grace, with patience, with love, with peace, no matter how many detours there are or how many lanes end. I needed that reminder.
I honestly think that if I could look down at the way from above, I would learn that really there were no road blocks. It was always straight. Optical illusions were created by my limited vision, or the shimmering waves from the heat of the moment. If I had walked with more patience for the path I might have noticed that with each step. The construction on the roads has given me an opportunity to catch my breath and look again. Maybe it isn’t a curve that I have come upon in my life. Maybe it is simply one more step on the path and all I need to see right now is that one step, because that is where the learning is. From my perspective that’s what the things that seem like detours are about, learning and growth. Each seeming obstacle is an opportunity to grow in my human life and in my spiritual life, and the lessons though they may feel challenging or even devastating, are worth learning, worth the patience, worth the effort. The merging I am focused on in my life is the human and Spirit and for that I must have patience with the path as I walk it.
Have patience with the path. I smiled to myself as I walked. It was much easier to find that patience when I was taking my morning walk as opposed to when I’m running late getting my daughters to field hockey or gymnastics. I recognized it as an important moment though.
My own journey took an unexpected turn recently, one that I saw no warning signs for. I wish I had seen the detour coming like I do around town, but it came nonetheless. Paths will do that. While I know it is something I will move through, I also needed the reminder to have patience as I walk it. I can’t always see the twists and turns the path will take in advance and truly I know that is not really the goal. The goal is to walk it with grace, with patience, with love, with peace, no matter how many detours there are or how many lanes end. I needed that reminder.
I honestly think that if I could look down at the way from above, I would learn that really there were no road blocks. It was always straight. Optical illusions were created by my limited vision, or the shimmering waves from the heat of the moment. If I had walked with more patience for the path I might have noticed that with each step. The construction on the roads has given me an opportunity to catch my breath and look again. Maybe it isn’t a curve that I have come upon in my life. Maybe it is simply one more step on the path and all I need to see right now is that one step, because that is where the learning is. From my perspective that’s what the things that seem like detours are about, learning and growth. Each seeming obstacle is an opportunity to grow in my human life and in my spiritual life, and the lessons though they may feel challenging or even devastating, are worth learning, worth the patience, worth the effort. The merging I am focused on in my life is the human and Spirit and for that I must have patience with the path as I walk it.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Maria
This is officially a disclaimer. This story may be difficult for some to read. It was difficult for me to write. It began with a simple photograph in a book of train tracks heading toward a building, and suddenly I was on a train on those tracks. It was a story I could only write part of because it was so vivid for me and then had to stop and return to it later. There is actually a shift in the tone of the story between the first writing and the second when I was able to come back to it from a new perspective. I thought it was important to leave it as it was, as I experienced the writing of it.
Before the story though came a poem that I have put on my website. It was a reminder of joy, a reminder that I very much needed after writing the story. I am posting the story now because I saw a documentary at the Rappahannock Independent Film Festival this week about a Polish woman who save the lives of 15 Jewish people during WWII by letting them live for 20 months in a hayloft and in a hole dug under her kitchen floor. After watching the film it just seemed like the right time to share this story.
Maria
I can feel the rumble of the train in my body and I can smell that scent that I can’t identify on the air, an acrid smoke that stops my breath with fear and I don’t know why. Hundreds of other eyes crammed close together trying to see and yet knowing that they don’t want to see what approaches. So they try to look behind us to get a last glimpse of a world they can understand, a last breath of air that is clean. But it’s too late, there is nothing clean anymore. All is grey and lost and full of hate. You cannot feel any humans around the train at the station because the souls that would give them true life have left what would have been their bodies far behind in the horror on the ground. If the weight in their hearts can be described, I haven’t the words for it. All that is describable is the screeching of the wheels, iron upon iron, the hissing release of the steam and smoke; and even that sinks slowly to the ground rather than drifting toward a heaven that can’t be felt in this place.
On the train their hope sank too, in each heart but one, for there is always one, one who would dream and see beyond, to where the smoke can’t venture. If not for that one, things might have been different now, they might even be different in some alternate version of what happened here, who knows. Maybe in another universe they broke her spirit, but in this one, thank God, she held fast, body and Spirit joined and whole. Because of her I exist to hold the memory of that place. While that is not a role I would have chosen; to be the keeper of the memory of horror, still someone must live on to speak the truth of it or none would believe it could be true and it could happen again. Even so, it has happened again. Have I failed in my mission since now there must be another and another who hold the horror of another place? I could not have let her down, I could not. I speak the story again and again of this place called Auschwitz. Sometimes I speak it at night to her when she visits me in my dreams. I try to convince her that it was not in vain, but it is me that I’m trying to convince, for the horror lives on. Does the story being told bring it back to life? Or does it help in some small way to prevent a repetition? Her eyes give me no answer but they do dance with joy. She has found peace. Perhaps I should have found mine there too, often I wish I had. But if by my story one less person feels the rumble of a train they can’t stop, then my peace must be found in that for now. One day I will share her joy and tell my story no more, for it will no longer be needed. Clean again all.
She had no tears that day. Her eyes were open and dry though tears flowed all around her. She knew the purpose of this place, within her being she knew. Yet she met their eyes, those who would actually look. Most didn’t look on purpose because few ever looked back, so they hadn’t expected to meet her eyes. It was they who had to look away when their eyes met. They could not withstand the light they found there, the angle of how she held her head. It was not anger or defiance or fear in her demeanor, it was freedom. Freedom despite the crush of humans, despite the scent of fear and death, despite the hard barrels of guns and harsh voices. She was free and they could see that.
They could not understand it though for they were not free themselves. In their way they were as trapped as those they imprisoned. They would not be released soon by death but would be imprisoned in the cells of their memories of what they had done for the rest of their lives. She knew that, she saw that in them. She saw the shells they had become, souls gone in sorrow. And she forgave them. In her freedom came the gift of forgiveness, even before the crime had been committed she forgave them. She forgave them for every life they had extinguished. And so they feared her. She who brought light and forgiveness was the one they feared the most. It was the path they didn’t know how to walk for themselves and there she was showing it to them, showing them compassion.
There was only one that day who could meet her eyes even briefly. His name was Josef. He saw her moving forward, the only one with her eyes looking ahead instead of down. She held his glance and he saw his fate in that instant, he knew he would choose it. He didn’t know how he would find the courage but he knew that it would be there when he needed it. Many days after that day he tried to deny it, he tried to tell himself he imagined it but each time he saw her he knew it afresh.
Normally there would not have been many days between her arrival and her death, but that was how much they feared her. They found reasons to let her live while those around her were called forward and never returned. Never did her eyes waver. So they tried unsuccessfully to break her.
It was not that she had left her body in this place and yet she was somehow distant. She had her feet on the ground and could feel the pain of the Earth in this place. She could feel the collective fear and hatred and ache. But she could feel more strongly the truth within her. The truth of the hearts of all who passed through this place and who were becoming this place. She did not carry their pain for them but somehow allowed it to leave them through her a little. Somehow she helped lighten the collective pain simply by being and knowing her truth.
She loved them all in a way that did not seem possible. Those going to their deaths gladly received her love and carried it with them on their journey. Those who lead them to their deaths couldn’t look at her love let alone receive it. All those except Josef that is. He received her love and she gave it freely each time she saw him. I don’t know if she too knew what he would do when her turn came. Maybe she did but didn’t know the courage would be there like he did. It did not distract her even if she did know. She went about her daily assignments and tasks as if it were a normal day, not the day she might die at the hands of those who hated her without reason. She did not do her work cheerfully but with dignity and grace. That was what her name might have been if one could have chosen it for her at that point, Grace, but it was Maria. She carried her light with her to each task and that was all she did.
Finally they could stand the light no more. They couldn’t look at it or extinguish it and it drove them mad. So one stepped forward to make the choice. It was Josef. He led her that day to the gas chamber and as with all things she walked forward with eyes ahead and light and forgiveness in them. He waited beside her as she, with the others, took off her clothes, the last remnants of their protection and dignity. She turned to look at him and he looked back, full in her eyes.
He did not take his eyes off hers as he bent to lay down his gun at her feet. He did not take his eyes off hers as he removed his own clothes. He did not take his eyes off hers as he took her hand and walked with her into that chamber.
Not one other guard moved. They stood in shock as he walked away. No one thought to pick up his gun and use it, so resigned were they to their fate. They were grateful to be near her at this moment of their deaths. As was he. Together they stood hand in hand as the door closed behind them, a finality to the sound of the lock moving into place.
There were no tears in the group that day, no pleas for mercy, no terror. They were all lost in the two that were at the center of the room. All lifted up by the connection found there, the truth revealed in hearts met that knew they were one, no matter their assigned roles or places of birth.
With Grace they died that day and for a moment or an eternity brought Grace to a place that never thought to see it again. Still it lingers in the sound of the wind in the trees around that place of sorrow, lightening it in some way, allowing it to move and be Free - As she was Free.
Before the story though came a poem that I have put on my website. It was a reminder of joy, a reminder that I very much needed after writing the story. I am posting the story now because I saw a documentary at the Rappahannock Independent Film Festival this week about a Polish woman who save the lives of 15 Jewish people during WWII by letting them live for 20 months in a hayloft and in a hole dug under her kitchen floor. After watching the film it just seemed like the right time to share this story.
Maria
I can feel the rumble of the train in my body and I can smell that scent that I can’t identify on the air, an acrid smoke that stops my breath with fear and I don’t know why. Hundreds of other eyes crammed close together trying to see and yet knowing that they don’t want to see what approaches. So they try to look behind us to get a last glimpse of a world they can understand, a last breath of air that is clean. But it’s too late, there is nothing clean anymore. All is grey and lost and full of hate. You cannot feel any humans around the train at the station because the souls that would give them true life have left what would have been their bodies far behind in the horror on the ground. If the weight in their hearts can be described, I haven’t the words for it. All that is describable is the screeching of the wheels, iron upon iron, the hissing release of the steam and smoke; and even that sinks slowly to the ground rather than drifting toward a heaven that can’t be felt in this place.
On the train their hope sank too, in each heart but one, for there is always one, one who would dream and see beyond, to where the smoke can’t venture. If not for that one, things might have been different now, they might even be different in some alternate version of what happened here, who knows. Maybe in another universe they broke her spirit, but in this one, thank God, she held fast, body and Spirit joined and whole. Because of her I exist to hold the memory of that place. While that is not a role I would have chosen; to be the keeper of the memory of horror, still someone must live on to speak the truth of it or none would believe it could be true and it could happen again. Even so, it has happened again. Have I failed in my mission since now there must be another and another who hold the horror of another place? I could not have let her down, I could not. I speak the story again and again of this place called Auschwitz. Sometimes I speak it at night to her when she visits me in my dreams. I try to convince her that it was not in vain, but it is me that I’m trying to convince, for the horror lives on. Does the story being told bring it back to life? Or does it help in some small way to prevent a repetition? Her eyes give me no answer but they do dance with joy. She has found peace. Perhaps I should have found mine there too, often I wish I had. But if by my story one less person feels the rumble of a train they can’t stop, then my peace must be found in that for now. One day I will share her joy and tell my story no more, for it will no longer be needed. Clean again all.
She had no tears that day. Her eyes were open and dry though tears flowed all around her. She knew the purpose of this place, within her being she knew. Yet she met their eyes, those who would actually look. Most didn’t look on purpose because few ever looked back, so they hadn’t expected to meet her eyes. It was they who had to look away when their eyes met. They could not withstand the light they found there, the angle of how she held her head. It was not anger or defiance or fear in her demeanor, it was freedom. Freedom despite the crush of humans, despite the scent of fear and death, despite the hard barrels of guns and harsh voices. She was free and they could see that.
They could not understand it though for they were not free themselves. In their way they were as trapped as those they imprisoned. They would not be released soon by death but would be imprisoned in the cells of their memories of what they had done for the rest of their lives. She knew that, she saw that in them. She saw the shells they had become, souls gone in sorrow. And she forgave them. In her freedom came the gift of forgiveness, even before the crime had been committed she forgave them. She forgave them for every life they had extinguished. And so they feared her. She who brought light and forgiveness was the one they feared the most. It was the path they didn’t know how to walk for themselves and there she was showing it to them, showing them compassion.
There was only one that day who could meet her eyes even briefly. His name was Josef. He saw her moving forward, the only one with her eyes looking ahead instead of down. She held his glance and he saw his fate in that instant, he knew he would choose it. He didn’t know how he would find the courage but he knew that it would be there when he needed it. Many days after that day he tried to deny it, he tried to tell himself he imagined it but each time he saw her he knew it afresh.
Normally there would not have been many days between her arrival and her death, but that was how much they feared her. They found reasons to let her live while those around her were called forward and never returned. Never did her eyes waver. So they tried unsuccessfully to break her.
It was not that she had left her body in this place and yet she was somehow distant. She had her feet on the ground and could feel the pain of the Earth in this place. She could feel the collective fear and hatred and ache. But she could feel more strongly the truth within her. The truth of the hearts of all who passed through this place and who were becoming this place. She did not carry their pain for them but somehow allowed it to leave them through her a little. Somehow she helped lighten the collective pain simply by being and knowing her truth.
She loved them all in a way that did not seem possible. Those going to their deaths gladly received her love and carried it with them on their journey. Those who lead them to their deaths couldn’t look at her love let alone receive it. All those except Josef that is. He received her love and she gave it freely each time she saw him. I don’t know if she too knew what he would do when her turn came. Maybe she did but didn’t know the courage would be there like he did. It did not distract her even if she did know. She went about her daily assignments and tasks as if it were a normal day, not the day she might die at the hands of those who hated her without reason. She did not do her work cheerfully but with dignity and grace. That was what her name might have been if one could have chosen it for her at that point, Grace, but it was Maria. She carried her light with her to each task and that was all she did.
Finally they could stand the light no more. They couldn’t look at it or extinguish it and it drove them mad. So one stepped forward to make the choice. It was Josef. He led her that day to the gas chamber and as with all things she walked forward with eyes ahead and light and forgiveness in them. He waited beside her as she, with the others, took off her clothes, the last remnants of their protection and dignity. She turned to look at him and he looked back, full in her eyes.
He did not take his eyes off hers as he bent to lay down his gun at her feet. He did not take his eyes off hers as he removed his own clothes. He did not take his eyes off hers as he took her hand and walked with her into that chamber.
Not one other guard moved. They stood in shock as he walked away. No one thought to pick up his gun and use it, so resigned were they to their fate. They were grateful to be near her at this moment of their deaths. As was he. Together they stood hand in hand as the door closed behind them, a finality to the sound of the lock moving into place.
There were no tears in the group that day, no pleas for mercy, no terror. They were all lost in the two that were at the center of the room. All lifted up by the connection found there, the truth revealed in hearts met that knew they were one, no matter their assigned roles or places of birth.
With Grace they died that day and for a moment or an eternity brought Grace to a place that never thought to see it again. Still it lingers in the sound of the wind in the trees around that place of sorrow, lightening it in some way, allowing it to move and be Free - As she was Free.
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